The Fight

By Mike S., Southbury, CT

The old boxing ring in the Bronx. The air reeked of cheap cigars and the smoke was so thick that it was difficult to see at times. I walked to the ring in my robe with the title "Kid Killer" written in bright yellow satin letters. That was when I saw him.

He was huge, with rippling muscles and a bulging gut. He was easily six feet tall, maybe even six and a half. His face had a jovial expression which was ironic because he was

probably a crippler. As I stared, he looked at me, the smile growing even bigger on his face; it seemed to mock me.

I did not want to fight him. He would probably pound every ounce of life out of my body. I wanted to leave, maybe hide somewhere. The fight could be canceled, but then, as I looked out at the crowd I realized I would have to prove myself as a man. After all, that's what boxing is: a man's sport. I could not live knowing that I had fled from another man in fear, again. I would have to fight this beast until one of us fell, and I prayed to God it would not be me.

I quickly put in my mouth guard and took a squirt of water. The bell rang and I started to dance around the ring. But he did not want to dance, he wanted to fight. He lunged at me and crushed my nose with a sharp jab-hook combination. I put my guard up and he let loose a series of blows to the ribs. I was already in intense pain. Every ounce of me just wanted to fall on the ground, but I couldn't. I tried to jab, but he took advantage of the second I put my arm back to deliver an uppercut to my chin. I heard my teeth grind and crush themselves. He then landed a series of punches to my nose and cheeks. Blood was dripping in my eyes and I could not see.

I only had enough energy for one more punch. I put all my waning strength into it and managed to hit him around the head. I could not see because everything was turning a shade of dark red. Something strange happened; there was a thud on the mat. I wiped the blood from my left eye and glanced to see what happened. The ref said "Ten" and I realized I had won. But that relief did not last long for he did not get up. His trainer came and checked him. He was not breathing. I had killed him; I had crushed his throat.

I left the ring in disgrace, not glory. I looked down at my hands which had conspired to the murder and at my robe, the satin letters had spoken more truth than I ever imagined. I looked back one more time at the huge body which now looked so helpless and I realized this was not manhood. 1